The Black Rose
by Petra Jade
Summary: "Some cases are best left unsolved, young Phantomhive; some skeletons best left alone. But then again, you were never much for leaving an opportunity alone without exploiting it. I suppose, then, that is why I led you to this crossroad in the first place. The next move is yours. How will you let this play out?"


**This is the result of many late nights with Niki. Nothing more, nothing less.**

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**_It is said..._**

_That if enough people wish on the same star, that wish will come true._

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1876

The church was filled to near breaking point. A seemingly endless sea of people, ladies in their corsets, muted colors (except that red-clad woman at the front who was blubbering like a fountain), large hats and fancy perfumes; men in their stiff tuxedos, shined shoes and quaffed hair, filled the pews of the large cathedral. Light shone down through the large stained glass windows, colored chunks of glass reflecting religious scenes and icons upon the cold stone floor and sunlight casting a pleasant glow across the crowds through the colorless windows near the top. Candelabras holding white candles were lit and flickering with each fan brush a lady made in an attempt to cool herself in the stuffy heat of the church. The doors were closed, trapping the heat of so many bodies into the small confined space. But they were all used it, having done the same thing every Sunday since birth.

But it was not Sunday today, in fact it was a Wednesday, and it was extra bright outside. The sun reflected harshly against the snow that had fallen two days prior, though it had no yet been warm enough to fully melt the white blanket that coated the streets of London. And even though it was quite frigid outside in the famous London breeze, ladies and men alike had shrugged off their furs and leathers half way through the ceremony because of the rising heat level. And still the man at the pulpit droned on, reciting Latin and Biblical verses in that voice that clearly said they were reciting. At the front of the church, steps ahead of the deathly silent crowd (except for that weeping woman who sniffed and blew into her kerchief), stood a regal looking pair. On the right stood a tall man with dark hair and eyes, pride beaming from his form as his face seemed to be permanently spread into a grin. He seemed to be intently listening to the words of the priest who was waving his arms around making various shapes in the air while he recited from the giant book in his arms. The man with dark hair was dressed very sharply, and he made a handsome figure, a clever and swiftly cruel nature hiding behind a pleasant smile.

Next to him on the left stood a shorter and almost dainty looking figure with long and gorgeous golden locks and the most beautiful pair of sapphire eyes that one could lay eyes on. She radiated calm and care, she seemed to anchor the man next to her who looked like he wanted to fly away. She was dressed elegantly, but at the same time it was simple, making for a beautiful and sensible way of dressing. The reason for the male's pride and the female's smile was clear when they shifted to present something to the priest. In the woman's arms was a finery-clad baby boy with his father's dark tresses and his mother's lapis eyes. Some of those in the crowd sighed happily, clearly taken with the baby's beauty, while others had a hard time keeping their private thoughts from crossing their faces. The year-old child was handed to the priest who began to sing-recite prayers while dripping the water from a basin on to the child's head. The child struggled to try and escape the uncomfortable wet drops running through his hair until he felt his mother's gloved hand. The child almost instantly calmed and soon the drops ceased their assault on his head.

To the front a pair of figures and one between them seemed to be the most proud as the applause filled the room, signaling the end of the ceremony. The two taller figures, both with white hair, both dressed sharply in white butler clothing and carried swords to their waists. They were still quite young, fifteen at the oldest, but they seemed to have an air of superiority to them as they escorted the middle figure to the front. The figure, dressed head to toe in black mourning clothes, approached the parents and they bowed to her. The figure, quite obviously Queen Victoria making one of her recent public appearances after so long away from her people, reached her arms forward and the woman carefully deposited the tiny baby into the elderly Queen's arms. People had begun to mingle amongst themselves, women quickly chatting with each other and gushing over the _beauty_ and _how touching_ the ceremony was and _wasn't the young lord just so adorable?_ The men quickly sought each other out to talk about _business_ and _wives _and _wasn't Earl Phantomhive just so lucky?_ As the Queen walked down the aisle towards the door, her two young butlers following diligently, conversation quickly turned to _how wonderful it was to see the Queen again after so long_ and _wasn't she simply beautiful?_

As she reached the door, she managed to spot a single figure half-hidden by the shadows not banished by the light from the windows. She was not that different from the others, having pitch black hair that reached her feet and dressed in a standard Victorian apparel, every inch of her skin below her neck covered in ebony fabric; however, her clothes sported lazy stitches made of blood red thread and she refused to put her hair up in a sensible fashion. She seemed to be listening to the gossip and the Queen quickly made her exit, not catching the red eyed glance that followed her from the woman. Seeing the Royal dismissed, the woman returned to listening to the men and women talk about things that made little difference, though the mentions of business transactions and the rumors of new drugs or kidnappings where filed away in the woman's memory for later. No, she was there for one purpose alone, and as the parents made their way to the door, she got her information.

"Lord Phantomhive! I say, Vincent!" A man bellowed and the dark haired man turned to the approaching nobleman and smiled. "Yes?" He asked pleasantly, his wife coddling her young bundle as he began to fuss. The man laughed. "I was out of the country for the announcement. Can you tell me what the young lord's name is?" He asked.

Vincent smiled patiently and herded his wife and demanding youngster to the door. "His name is Ciel."

_Ciel Phantomhive._

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1881

The sins of some nobles could be easily ignored because they did so much good on the surface. In the case of one baron, his love of helping homeless children was an easy cover for why he had so many young girls and boys in his house at any one time. But while there were always those who chose to ignore the obvious, there were eyes that saw the truth. And those eyes looked through the letter several more times before the piece of paper was put down silently and a black nail tapped against lightly-coloring lips gently as the reader thought for a moment. There were many factors to consider when one was deciding whether or not to give such a large sum of money to a rather low-ranked noble. Both sins and virtues had to be considered and such a decision could not be rushed.

On one side, Baron Kelvin was a positive man on paper. He rescued and cared for homeless and disabled kids, those many other people and nobles would let die. He gave them work in the factories he owned and provided them with food and shelter in exchange for mostly unpaid work. On the surface and in the papers this was a wonderful man; everyone loved a person who did what people knew they should do but would _never do it themselves._ He clearly could afford it, his simple products were purchased by other businessmen to further their own product output, so there was little doubt he could pay back a debt over time. This seemed like all perfectly good reasons to allow the man to borrow such an outrageous sum of money from the person the letter was addressed too. Black nails tapped against each other in a thoughtful rhythm as the other half of the man came to memory.

True, what he did on the surface was good and cleared the streets of the unwanted as well as kept the poor houses from being over crowded. However, and this was probably the biggest problem, he was a _raging pedophile_. And not just for the young girls who cleaned his house. Now, almost all of the noble houses had secrets they did not wish to share, but what he was asking for was money for something directly related to his obsession with the young and the beautiful. More specifically, money for surgeries to impress and be able to get close to the six year old heir to the Phantomhive house. Something had finally snapped that already warped mind and now he was begging for _four times_ what his entire property was worth in loans to pay for 'the process of becoming more appealing'. This was surely going to get him caught as the disgusting noble he was, and if the loan was completed, it would in turn connect the loaner to his crimes. It was dangerous gamble at the least.

However, this would also mean that he would have to pay the debt back any way the loaner saw fit, and he had many overseas connections that could be exploited. A dark and clever smile wound its way over a flawless face as a dainty hand grabbed the ink-pen that sat nearby in a bottle of pitch black ink. The pen was lifted and a single drop of the black ink fell back into the bottle like a drop of blood as a reply letter was filled out and signed, the scratching of the pen on the paper filling the office before the letter was closed, sealed and carried away by a young boy with long blonde hair for delivery.

The figure chuckled, the sound like oil over ice, and turned to the window that showed the drearily rainy and dull city of London. A single hand was placed against the window and eyes swept over the cityscape.

"Seems you are quite popular, Phantomhive child."

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1886

_Phantomhive manor burned! Earl Phantomhive and Wife declared dead!_

_Phantomhive heir missing! Aunt offering reward!_

_Tragedy strikes noble house! _

_Family of the Phantomhives in grieving! Is this the end of the Funtom Company?_

Headline after headline informed those who read them about the fate of the Phantomhive house. Some people were shocked and worried, especially those who worked in the factories and shops owned by Funtom, but for most it was simply news. Shocking news, but most people quickly got over the shock as they returned to their daily lives. To the working class, the death of a noble was neither interesting nor worth the extra breath spent gasping. Of course, the only time the dirt-level of London ever showed any emotion was when a street urchin was stealing goods, a Royal Family member passed away or a parent-in-law was visiting. Not even a war would really rouse the spirits of the working class, they had more important things to do, like provide for their families as well as the soft seating the nobles had. A noble family had died, rather brutally, so now was the time to be as British as possible. Head up, chin to the work stone and putting your back into it.

Of course, the Queen offered personal condolences to the remaining relatives of the Phantomhives, one Marquess Frances Middleford and her family and one Doctor Angelina Durless, in the form of very fancy letters delivered by the very same white haired butlers who had been there at the child's christening (though now they were twenty-five and much more accomplished). It was very heart-felt, very pleasant and very impersonal. After all, if the Queen personally visited every noble family who had a loss, she would never see her palace again, besides, she was in India at the time. But, of course, the two remaining relatives certainly could not throw a fit and tell the royal butlers to their face that the letter was worth next to nothing, which would be both offensive to the crown and very un-British.

The headlines were dismissed quite easily by most of the other nobles once the obligatory letters of _I am so sorry for your loss_ and all those empty offers of favors that were as hollow as the remaining relatives' hearts. They had sent the letters, nothing more could be done, so it was dismissed and life moved on just like that.

One of the final letters Angelina Durless, better known as Madam Red, received had a strange snow-white wax seal with a rose mark in the middle of it. Not recalling any noble house with a rose a symbol, she almost did not open the letter until curiosity got the better of her. She opened the letter and found a message terribly similar to all the ones she had read before, and with an almost tired glare, she moved to throw it away.

Whoever had a rose seal clearly had no creativity when it came to condolence letters.

* * *

1887

It was simply a miracle, it had to be. Ciel Phantomhive had returned after no sign of him for a year. It was almost like he had just reappeared at his aunt's hospital and there was much celebration among the nobles for quite some time. But perhaps the most interesting was how quickly the child had once again seized his family's company and within a few months it was fully employed and producing profits. Many nobles believed a third-party family to have helped (most thought it was Royal warrants and such), but those who looked into it found that it was simply the child's unusually intelligent mind. No extra money had been loan to the company, not even for the repairs of the manor which seemed to be done overnight. The child seemed to have landed on his feet and just kept running, being decorated only two months before his twelfth birthday by the crown and reintroduced as the Earl of Phantomhive, the Queen's Guard Dog. It was incredibly, it was mind-blowing, it caused a lot of envy from the other noble houses.

The same figure from his christening, older now though she did not look it, observed his decorating ceremony with vague interest. Once the ceremony was completed, she observed the boy leave with his dark-haired butler and left the building herself. She had the information that was required and desired and, grabbing a newspaper from a young boy on her way through the streets, she made her way into her carriage. The carriage began moving and a grin crossed the woman's face, a most interesting development indeed and a lucky turn of events for the Queen. But she was no fool, little boys did not just magically re-appear after a year of being nowhere.

Her ride ended at the foot of a manor just outside the city, within walking distance if one was so inclined, and she stepped out and rushed inside to meet with the woman inside. She quickly climbed the stairs and dashed down the hallways until she reached the office door of the most powerful woman she had ever known. A few knocks at the door, a common courtesy, before the black-haired woman entered the office space, closing the door behind her with a quiet click of the latch. She stepped forward, shoes muted against the carpet, as she placed the newspaper on the desk, the big bold letters across the top informing the working class, and those not invited to the decorating, of the Phantomhive heir's miraculous return to the land of the living.

A single hand reached out and laid on the newspaper.

"So, the Phantomhive boy is home." The voice was neither questioning nor surprised, as if this return was expected or the woman had already known. "And he is taking over his father's work." Mused the woman as the black-haired one nodded silently. Silence once again stretched across the room, the heaviness of it nearly suffocating as the desk-dwelling woman closed her eyes in thought. The black haired woman stood stiffly to attention, though after some time she began to shift from foot to foot, not liking how she could not tell if the silence was a good or bad one. Finally a finger began tapping, the noise reminiscent of a heeled shoe as the long nail found the wood of the desk. The thinking woman finally opened her eyes and looked over at the ruby gaze of her spy.

"This is good." She said and the black-haired one nodded in turn. "Tell my son, Edward, that he and his sister can call off the clean-ups." She decided and with a crossing of her fingers before her face as if she was praying, she waited for her spy to obey. When the black haired woman tilted her head in silent confusion as to why the clean-up would be called off, the woman at the desk sent her a smirk before putting her crossed fingers flat against the desk. "Why waste my children's talents getting people to clean up the messes around England when I can send an eager young guard dog to bury the skeletons for me? He's young, he'll be getting bored soon, so we'll have to give him something to chase and catch otherwise he may start sniffing in the wrong directions." She informed and the other woman slowly nodded. "Once you've spoken to Edward, bring me my list. I have some jobs for the boy to do."

The black haired woman bowed and nodded. "Yes, your majesty."

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**Spoilers are for the weak. **

**Remember kids, I feed Niki on reviews. Don't let my poor editor/waifu starve. **

**Love,**

**Petra Jade**


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